


Windows

by Corvid_Knight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Earth C, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, aspects shaping player's bodies, if you haven't read the fic this is inspired by you might want to, implied mind control?, slightly dysfunctional relationship, they're trying though, unorthodox methods of mental self harm, weird godtier shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:38:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Jake and Dirk have a fight that escalates a bit more than seems normal. (There's a reason for that, but it's not quite what either of them assume.)





	Windows

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rose Quartz and Citrine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12822162) by [Corvid_Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight). 



It’s the worst fight you’ve had with Dirk in your memory, and the worst part is that it’s over the goddamn _carpet_. The stains in it, to be precise. The ones from him toting half-destroyed bot pieces through the house to his workroom, not draining the oil and what-have-you out before he drags them in, with the result that it drips and stains and ruins.

(Perhaps you shouldn’t be so irate over this. _Probably_ you shouldn’t be this irate. It’s carpet. Carpet can be replaced.)

But you scream at him anyway, despite the little voice in the back of your head that points out you’re a Hope player, you can fix this with two minutes of concentration and desire. You scream at him and he screams back at first and then realizes what he’s doing, forces himself onto the razor’s-edge of calm—which infuriates you more, he _promised_ he’d not shut you out like this, he _swore_ to you—

You sob with fury and frustration and _confusion_ , plant both hands on his chest and shove him back. Dirk stumbles back so easily that the golden wings that usually fold under your skin spread to keep you balanced, keep you from going ass over teakettle after him, phasing through your shirt and extending to their full span as he just stares.

And he’s focused on your halo rather than your face, you know he is. _Fuck_!

"Jake,“ he says, and you don’t know what’s going to come out next and never will because you push him again, both hands planted on his chest, your wings ruffling and flexing to put more force into it. It’s not enough to hurt him, you wouldn’t do that, but as translucency races out across his body from the contact with you, you almost want to.

Why the bloody hell are you so angry?

The desire to hurt him horrifies you enough that you sob again and drop to your knees, folding your wings around yourself rather than drawing them back in. It makes a feathery sanctuary, a place to hold yourself and let everything that isn’t what you want drain away.

Dirk doesn’t touch you.

That’s not right.

When you’ve managed to take a step back from the painful useless rage, you spread and fold your wings, look up to him. You’ll apologize, you’ll mean it, you didn't—

The door’s open, letting cold air and short-lived snowflakes worm their way in, and Dirk is gone.

* * *

But he hasn’t gone far. You find him perhaps fifty yards outside the house, leaning against a tree and staring at nothing. In the dimness of winter twilight he shines like a faint star; every inch of his body is crystal again, even without your touch. His arms have doubled, two palms pressed against the trunk and two not-quite-limp at his side, fingers twitching every few seconds.

Dirk looks like a jewel. He’s so beautiful your heart aches and your wings spread, and fear rises into your throat as he doesn’t look at you. Not even when you step in front of him.

"Dirk? Love, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me—”

When you reach out to cup his face, cracks race across the flawless pink and gold stone that is his flesh right now. You gasp and recoil; the damage retreats, but he still doesn’t look at you. Not really.

You don’t know _what_ he’s looking at, what those unfamiliar storm-grey eyes focus on. God, but that’s the only part of his aspect’s changes that you really hate—you want his real eyes, _your_ Dirk’s eyes, orange-gold and so expressive that he keeps them hidden from all but the people he cares for most. You need to be able to read what’s wrong from his eyes, and all you see in them right now is roiling thunderclouds.

"Oh, _Dirk._ “ Your wings are gone, for now. You have to use your hands to cover your face. "Dirk, please.” Do you even know what you’re begging him for? No. “Dirk.” Stop saying his name like that’s an explanation in and of itself. Just stop, you useless idiot, you hopeless fucking fool. “ _Dirk…_ ”

He touches you, while you’ve still got your hands over your face; you recoil from it only because you weren’t expecting a cool hand on your forehead, but from the expression on his face when you look up—at once resigned and shocked, more broken than when you touched him even though he’s managed to force himself to flesh rather than crystal—he isn’t factoring surprise into your reaction at all. 

If you give him time, he’ll turn and bolt, and all your powers won’t help you catch him. You know that, and so you don’t give him time—Dirk takes one step backwards, hugging himself like he’s afraid he won’t be able to keep himself from touching you, like he thinks he knows that you don’t want him touching you, and then you’re nearly flying across the four feet that separates you from him, slamming into him with a tackle that’s worthy of instant replay at any football game ever played.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t _that._ The two of you hit the ground with you on top of him, your wings abruptly manifesting again as if in reaction to Dirk’s startled grunt as you crush the air out of him. You grab for his shoulders, nearly flinch at how cracked crystal spreads out from the contact, and refuse to let go because that’s the best way to lift yourself and if you _don’t_ lift yourself he won’t be able to _breathe_.

Dirk still doesn’t breathe for a moment after you ease your weight off his chest, though. Just stares up at you, eyes flickering with light and phasing from grey to yellow to clear wild cobalt, before he groans and shuts them tight.

When he opens them, they’re orange again. You wonder if that’s because his emotions are something orange right now, or if he’s deliberately masking that part of his aspect’s form. “Jake.”

"I know—I should get off you—"

"Nope.“ Now it’s your turn to be startled again, as Dirk reaches out with arms you don’t dare count and pulls you down until your full weight’s on him, clinging like you’re going to somehow drag him up off the cold ground. His next words come out mumbled into the side of your neck, too low for him to be aiming for your ear. "Just…don’t let me freeze, all right? That’d be shitty. And Just.” 

You should argue that it’s only his own idiotic opinion of himself that points to any possible death here being a deserved one. Instead of doing that, you nod and tug at his shoulder until he rolls to the side, let him pin your wing to the ground with his weight, fold your other one around him.

Feathers alone wouldn’t keep the two of you warm enough, but the sphere of your influence is more than just physical. Hope surrounds you, you exhale it with each breath, and if Dirk was shivering before, that eases as you hold him tighter, no matter how cold the world is around you.

* * *

"I deserved it,“ he says into the mug of tea you’re insisting he drink, at least a few hours later. (When you’re immortal, time can lose its immediacy. Dave says it happens for everyone from the old universes, but you still forget about it until you lose time focusing on your love.) The tea’s been sitting there between his loosely cupped hands for long enough that steam’s stopped rising from it, and Dirk hasn’t raised his gaze from it once.

"You deserved it.” Even as you finish saying that you realize it should have been a question. God, why didn’t you make it a question? “What—you didn’t deserve anything, sweetheart, you—”

"Also true. I _don’t_ deserve anything. I’ll be the first one to admit it’s a paradox, but—"

"That’s not what I meant and you know it.“ Why won’t he _look_ at you? You want him to look at you, he needs to look at you, he _will_ look at you—

Dirk raises his head and looks at you. There’s something bright and pale behind of his eyes, and you recoil so hard you nearly tip your chair over. He inhales a sharp breath and grabs for your hands, sending the mug of tea flying to shatter on the (now unstained) carpet.

You don’t even think about what you’re doing. That’s the hell of Hope powers—they don’t need thought, not really. All you have to do is believe, and…

The mug’s on the table in front of Dirk again, steam rising from the liquid inside. He stares at it for a moment, then lets go of your wrists, picks it up, and very deliberately takes a sip.

That is followed by him almost dropping the mug again, spitting out a string of expletives. 

"Oh, god, you burned your tongue, didn’t you?”

"Fuck my tongue.“ That comes out slightly mangled, but still decipherable. Dirk wipes at his mouth with one hand and waves you away with the other. "Stop.”

He doesn’t want you to touch him. He knows what you did, even before you’re able to tell him.

"I’m _sorry_ —I didn’t mean to, Dirk, I wouldn’t do that on purpose, never, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I'm—"

"Fuck? Jake?“ Ah. Dirk’s arms settle around you as you dissolve into tears; you need to stop making so _fucking_ many assumptions about why he does things. He wouldn’t be so gentle nor so concerned if he knew about how you just used your powers on him, even if it was inadvertent. The fact that he _doesn’t_ know only colors your guilty tears with shame, instead of staunching them. "Hey. It’s barely anything, I'm—fuck. Look at me.”

You fail to do that, partly because it’s easier and less fear-inducing to simply cling to him and press your face into his shirt. Dirk’s nothing if not persistent, though; he lets you have a moment, waiting to see if you’re going to react to his request at all, and then takes matters into his own hands when you don’t.

His arms stay wrapped around you, but a third hand slides under your chin, tips your head back until you’re meeting worried orange eyes. _Orange_ —none of his aspect’s colors tint, none of your pale brilliance. Just orange, just your Dirk.

Dirk, whose expression is mirroring your relief so perfectly that you worry about what your powers are doing or have done to him. “Dirk, I—”

"I used my powers on you,“ he says, calm and level and too fast for you to say it first. He releases you as he says it; the part of you that isn’t baffled by the fact that he somehow guessed what you were going to say notes that the relief is gone from his face, replaced with a calm blankness that you _know_ masked fear. "Not just now. I don’t think just now. I wouldn’t make you cry, but I—”

"Dirk, what the bloody hell are you talking about?“ Oh, there’s your voice. You lost it for a second there, but now you’ve found it again. "You didn’t use your powers on me—you’re the one with Hope in your eyes, for Christ’s sake!”

He blinks at you. There’s nothing in his eyes but confusion now, which you thank any gods that aren’t yourself for. “What?”

"I’m _sorry_ —I don’t mean to do it, all this time and I don’t have control, I swear I’m trying but sometimes I look at you and I want you to do something, I believe you should do it, and I—"

"Wait.“ Dirk’s eyes flicker for a second, orange to startled red and back again. He looks like the AR—no, like _Hal_ in that second, and you barely manage to not startle at the resemblance. "Fuck. We’re just taking turns escalating and defusing shit, aren’t we?”

"…what?“

"I—god, this sounds fucking _stupid._ ” He hesitates, frowns, and scoots his chair back a tad, one hand coming up to nervously push at his hair, as if he thinks he’s got a snowball’s chance in hell to put it back in its usual order. “Pretend you’re Rose, all right?”

"If you say so?“ You close your eyes for a moment and pretend you’re Rose. Dirk talks to Rose, doesn’t he? That’s why he wants you to pretend, isn’t it?

When you open your eyes Dirk isn’t looking at you, but at the tabletop in front of himself. "I fucked up,” he says, in a tone that you rarely hear from him, soft and rueful and truthful enough to hurt. “Got oilstains on the carpet. Pissed you off. I don’t even fucking know if I just—missed a step disposing of that shit, or if I _wanted_ to piss you off. If you’re upset it _hurts_ , Jake, physically fucking hurts, I feel your heart’s resonance and the fucking _microfractures_ , the shit _I’m_ causing—can you feel it? Do you ever feel it?”

For a moment you don’t answer because you’re still pretending to be Rose. Then you remember that oh wait, you’re you. Jake. Dirk’s Jake. “I don’t think so. Fighting hurts, but not like being broken.”

"Thank fuck.“ He shudders, still not looking up at you. "I—felt you. Hurting. I hurt you. I felt that shit and I _know_ I’m the one who should be hurt—”

_Oh._ Suddenly, pieces start to click into place. “Oh, love, no—”

"—every part of me wants you to fucking destroy me, take me apart, I feel that shit and if I don’t pay attention my aspect reaches out and fucks with your heart and—"

"Sweetheart. Stop.“

"—fucking _twists_ you, changes—”

There really is no reasoning with him when he starts talking sometimes, not with words at least. You lean across the table and take his hands, lift them from where they lie on the table and kiss the backs until he relaxes enough to unclench them and lace his fingers through yours. By that time Dirk’s stopped talking, too, and when you look up bright amber eyes meet yours.

"Are you quite done?“ you ask him, as gently as you can. When he nods, you continue, ”Good, because it’s my turn. It’s not just you, you absolute _numbskull_.“

"I know, but—”

"Hope’s as tricky as Heart, and you know I’m not as quick to realize what’s going on as you, especially when I can’t see your blasted eyes. For all you know, my powers pushed you into feeling awful enough to trigger yours—"

"…are you saying we started a god damn feedback loop?“

"Now how should I know?” If that’s what you think it is, it’s probably pretty close to what happened. “We’re going to Rose tomorrow.”

"No. Why.“ The resigned look on his face suggests he knows exactly why. Dirk _hates_ going to anyone for therapy, mostly because it requires more in-depth prodding of his psyche than he likes to do himself. "Okay. Fine. Tomorrow. Tonight—”

"Yes, Dirk. Tonight we’re going to sleep. Want me to carry you to bed?“

"Please.”

**Author's Note:**

> found the first half of this in my notes, had absolutely no idea what i was planning whenever i wrote it, finished it anyway. lmao


End file.
